all the colours it takes to paint a person
by RosieCheeks101
Summary: Black. Everywhere he turned it was all he saw. The people wore black, and they held black umbrellas, and even the clouds seemed to have darkened. It was as if even the sky knew that they were in mourning.


**Some major trigger warnings apply to this story, although there's nothing particularly graphic there are allusions to suicide.**

 _Black._

Everywhere he turned it was all he saw. The people wore black, and they held black umbrellas, and even the clouds seemed to have darkened. It was as if even the sky knew that they were in mourning.

His eyes dragged back up to the black umbrellas around him (anything was better than looking at _her_ , being lowered into the ground) before he glanced at his own umbrella, a bright pink abomination she'd bought him years ago.

Clearly he hadn't gotten the memo.

Laughter threatened to bubble up within him, and he clamped his mouth firmly shut. He could imagine what she'd have to say right now, right down to her mocking tone ("Really? I died and _this_ is how you're choosing to pay your respects to me? You may as well have worn your goddamn leather jacket!").

She'd loved black, but he hated it, especially in times of mourning like this. It was too cliche, too somber, too goddamn depressing. The last thing they needed right now was depressing. He hadn't planned on wearing his stupid black suit at all, their friends ( _his_ friends, it wasn't like she was coming back to claim them) had had to force him into it, and even then he'd hollered and kicked up a fuss.

A hand pressed against his shoulder, and he turned his head slightly to look at the girl it belonged to. The girl with the wavy hair and the eyes so dark they were almost black. Once upon a time he'd loved her, had gone so far as to imagine a future with her, but his heart was fixated on a different girl now, so he shrugged away the delicate touch.

Of course, the girl he loved was being lowered into the ground before his very eyes.

 _Red._

He caught a flash of the colour out of the corner of his eye and spun his head, and he saw a little girl, red balloon in one pudgy hand while the other gripped tight to her mother's shirt. His eyes fixated on the balloon. It bobbed up and down, a red dot against the grey sky (he hated the colour. Hated the way it had seeped out of her and into the tiles. Hated the way it had stained his jeans as he'd knelt with her, screaming for help and fumbling for his phone. Hated the way it wouldn't wash out from his clothes or his memory no matter how hard he scrubbed).

The mother was crying, hunched over a grave and sobbing mercilessly. He watched that too, watched the way her shoulders heaved as she begged god for one more day with the person she'd lost (lord only knew what he'd give to have one more day), but crying was futile. The person the woman wept for was gone, nothing but a tombstone left to remind the world that one upon a time there'd been a person that walked this earth, if only briefly.

He tore his eyes away from the private moment as movement erupted around him, and he suddenly became aware of the fact that the funeral was over. A hand touched his shoulder, not the same hand as before. This one was broader, and the voice that accompanied was kind as he was coaxed to stand up.

 _Brown._

The colour sloshed beneath their feet as they stumbled along, staining the fake leather of his shoes (she'd loved weather like this. She would tug on her bright yellow rain boots and hop from puddle to puddle. She'd kick water at him and stain his clothes brown with the stuff). He kept his eyes trained down, vaguely aware of the arm around him that kept him from stumbling face first into the mud.

He crawled into the backseat of the car with a few of his fellow former classmates, curling against the door and shutting his eyes tight. His whole body ached with the loss, he just wanted to sleep (maybe she'd been smart to get out. To go to sleep and never wake up. No one could hurt you that way).

Before he even had the chance to drift, however, a hand shook his shoulder, and he blinked his eyes open cautiously.

 _White._

That was the colour of the pills that were pressed into his hand, along with a plastic bottle. The girl who handed them to him watched him carefully to make sure he took them, though he didn't know why she cared. They'd spoken maybe once the entire time they'd been classmates ( _she_ used to take it upon herself to make sure he took his meds. Maybe she'd passed on the message in the note she'd left. He hadn't read it). He took a swig of water and swallowed the pills before turning away, unable to shut his eyes again.

Instead he watched the hills roll past, eventually migrating into the streets of the city (he'd thought she'd loved this city. If she'd loved it why would she leave it behind?). The others in the car slowly began to migrate into conversation, mostly simple memories they shared of her. None of them ere important memories though, no one talked about the days where they'd come home and find her on their couch, having apparently picked the lock, or the times when she wouldn't pick up the phone for a week because she'd been working on some piece she simply couldn't put down, or the times where they'd notice a new scar on her wrist and she'd vehemently deny the fact.

No one talked about the things that had really made her _her_.

He shut his eyes, but all he saw was her. All he saw was black painted nails, chewed talons she would scrape down his back; he saw red hair, locks he loved to tangle his hands into; he saw brown eyes, alight with excitement as she spoke of her latest story; and he saw white skin like porcelain, and all he could remember was how it had been cold to the touch by the time he'd found her.

 _If she'd loved him, why had she left him alone in this spiralling whirlwind of colours they called life?_


End file.
